Something's Wrong
by Valkyrie Of The Dead
Summary: It takes John some time to realise what's going on. There is blood everywhere. On the walls, on the floor, there are even some splatters on the ceiling.


**Hi! Did you miss me?  
Btw, this story can be seen as Johnlock or as a platonic Johnlock or as a part of a case - you'll see what I mean...**

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It takes John some time to realise what's going on. There is blood everywhere. On the walls, on the floor, there are even some splatters on the ceiling.

There is blood on the little black device lying under a chair, a device he has seen a lot of times. He can see that you can open it, when someone picks it up and opens it, he recognizes it. Wait. Why does he know this strange magnifying glass? The dark-green leather chair is speckled with blood as well, just as the one facing it. John winces sympathetically. The blood will be hell to get out of the old red fabric.

Some of the logs from the fireplace have fallen out, right onto a bundle of fabric. It looks like a dark, dirty red-brown-blue. It is wet, the police-officer – or is it a forensic? – who is walking around in the ridiculous blue suit with the white bag-like covers over his shoes picks it up and places it in a plastic bag.

The forensic walks to the man in charge, John needs a moment to remember his name. Lestrade. Yes, that was it. Why is there something, some itch at the back of his head?

"Hey John, are you okay?" the forensic asks him. Finally his brain gives him the name of the man who somehow makes John uncomfortable. It's Anderson. Why does he feel like he should know it?

"I -" He doesn't know what to say. There is something very wrong here, obviously. But what? What is wrong with this picture?

He leans against the door frame, trying to steady his wobbly knees. Is his limp acting up again? But then again, it doesn't hurt at all.

"Does he look like it?" Lestrade's voice pulls him from his thoughts, and though he doesn't really like the forensic it sounds a bit harsh. Anderson had just asked a nice question, hadn't he?

John looks around the room again, it's a complete and utter mess. But there is some kind of organisation in it, when he walks through the other door, the one leading to the kitchen – if he can call it that, who keeps body-parts in the fridge and chemicals on the table – he can see it: He is pretty sure he could say where the cups are. He'd wash them before he'd use them because... Why would he do that? Shouldn't it be clean, standing in the cupboard?

"We'll check for DNA, John. Something happened here, this too much blood for a single person, at least so far spread, it might well be that it's someone else's." Someone else's then whose?

Who is missing in this room, in this place? And why is he here? He isn't a police-officer.

"Easy, John, calm down, it will be okay, we will find him." Oh. It's shock, he can practically feel his paleness – that explains his wobbly knees. But he was in Afghanistan, why does the blood trouble him so much? There is not even a body here, he has seen a lot worse. And who is _him_?

John raises his left hand to his eyes, rubbing over his face, and sinks gratefully onto the lab-chair from the kitchen. It's in one of the corners, and it feels wrong. Shouldn't it be directly in front of the table, so one could sit in front of the microscope – that is standing on a counter, next to the microwave. Strange, he could have sworn it stands on the table.

His gaze flits over his hand and he stiffens. The gold-ring. What is it doing there, what is going on? There is a maelstrom of questions in his head. What is going on, why is he here? Why does the police-officer, Lestrade, look so worried? It's his job, shouldn't he be used to it? Why does he feel like he knows Lestrade, knows this place? Who is the person everyone is talking about? What happened here? What happened _with him_?

He pulls the ring of his finger and absently notices how shiny it is, how new but still loved it looks.

The elegant writing on the inside makes him curious and he takes another look.

_It's always you, John Watson._

Suddenly he can feel himself being pulled into the maelstrom, can feel the world crashing down, thinks what he thought when he entered the flat thirty minutes ago.

Sherlock.


End file.
